Little Prince: The Accidental Life of a Lucky Orphan

By Kal Wagenheim

In 1937, during the Great Depression, the young mother of a two-year-old boy died while giving birth to a baby girl, and the boy's father, victim of severe depression, abandoned the family, leaving the boy an orphan. More than seven decades later, the author, in this personal memoir, relates how he was raised with much love by his late mother's family, and has led a happy, productive life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WingSpan Press
• Release date: Feb 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781595948847

Book preview

Preface

In 1937, during the Great Depression, when I was two years old, my mother, age twenty-two, died in childbirth. Shortly before her death, my father—who had long suffered from severe depression-- left her and went to live with his parents. He never returned.

One might think that I, the little orphan boy, was destined for an unhappy life. Quite the contrary. I was too young to understand what had happened. I was surrounded by so much love (great-grandparents, a grandmother, and a bunch of eccentric great-uncles) that in many ways I was raised like a Little Prince, and enjoyed a happy, carefree childhood in Newark, NJ. It was only later, as an adult—and a parent and grand-parent myself—that I was able to look back and truly understand the nature of the tragedy.

In the past half century, I’ve had about twenty different jobs. I applied for only two of them. The rest magically appeared, phone calls out of the blue, chance meetings—happy accidents.

Perhaps I’m engaging in fanciful thinking, but so many good people (family, friends, strangers) have intervened in my life that I wonder: does God have a guilty conscience? Has He sought to help me, with divine interventions, in order to compensate for the early tragedy in my life? (On that theme, I have written a one-act play, Coffee With God, which has been produced dozens of times in the USA,Canada and Ireland.).

I have put together this memoir---a combination of memories, news clippings, letters, and tape recorded conversations-- first of all, for my children and other younger members of our family -- including those yet to be born -- to give them a sense of part of their heritage, and for dear friends and others who might find it of interest. On a deeper level, I have written it for myself, for catharsis, and to savor moments in the past, some sad, and some hilarious. I think the British novelist Graham Greene put it best when asked, in an interview, why he wrote: We write to heal a wound in ourselves, to make ourselves whole..

THE EARLY YEARS

The defining moment in my life -- it changed the course of everything --was the death of my mother, Rozlon Heller Wagenheim, on May 31, 1937, when I was two years old. She was just 22. A photo of my mother rests atop a bookcase near the desk where I work each day. Her illuminated face, surrounded by shadows, is seen in profile, her dark hair combed back in the style of a Spanish flamenco dancer. She is eternally young, and beautiful.

During my childhood I was told that my mother had passed away of an illness. It was not until I was 25, in 1960, that I was told the entire, shocking truth: the day before she died of hemorrhaging, my mother had given birth to a baby girl. The infant girl was adopted. It was not until September 13, 1973, when I was 38, that I met my sister June for the first time. But more about that magical reunion later.

I also learned years later that, when my mother died, she had been separated from my father, Harold Wagenheim, who was a public school teacher in Newark NJ and an amateur dramatist/screenwriter. My father was a man of fragile temperament, who suffered from severe depression, and my mother’s death pushed him off the deep end. He lost his teaching job, and drifted to California, where he continued to be plagued by depression and lived on the edge of poverty. We exchanged many good letters over the years, but father and son would not meet face to face until July 1969, when he was 66 years old, and I was 34. He died on January 11, 1981, at the age of 77.

Nanny, Grandma & Cousin Rosie

I was raised by two wonderful women: my maternal great-grandmother, Ida Shamberg (I called her Grandma); and her daughter, my grandmother, Lillian (I called her Nanny). I adored Grandma, who from age 70 cared for me while Nanny went off to work. She was a gentle, kind soul who probably shaped my character more than anyone else. Grandma spoke to me mostly in Yiddish, and occasional broken English, and I would reply in English. I understood most of the Yiddish, and I regret today that I never learned to speak the language. I also regret that I never took the trouble to write down the full story of her past, her coming to America. But I do recall some details.

She was born Ida Hoffman, around 1868, on the outskirts of Kishinev, the capital of Bessarabia (now called Moldova), a region that is ethnically Romanian, but had long been a part of the Russian Empire. Grandma told me how the people lived in mortal terror of the Cossacks, sabre wielding horsemen who raided the villages. I first heard the word pogrom from her lips. In Bessarabia, Grandma married Israel Shamberg (I called him Grandpa), a butcher, and in 1891 they came, as millions did, to America, settling in the Lower East Side. Since I knew them only as elderly immigrants, it is astounding to me that they arrived in America when they were quite young. According to a 1905 NY State Census, Grandma was then 37. Her birth year was 1868, and she had been in the U.S. for 14 years, meaning that she arrived at age 23. The Census said that Grandpa was 26 when they arrived, but my Aunt Lucille told me that Grandpa was several years older than Grandma. Grandpa died around 1945, about age 87, when I was 10. Grandma died at age 92 (Nov. 13, 1960) when I was 25.

The 1905 Census shows that the Schaumberg family (Grandma and Grandpa) resided on Second Ave in Lower Manhattan. They had seven children, most of whom were somewhat eccentric (more about them later). In order of age they were: Anna (the only one born in the old country, in 1887); Murrey (born 1891-2); Lillian (my grandmother, born 1893); Davie (born 1896); Addie, a girl (born 1899, died a few years later); and Eddie and Carl (born some years later). Since Grandma and Grandpa spoke little or no English when their children were born, although they did their best to pronounce the names of the newborn to the government census takers, the spelling on the papers was different each time. Grandma and Grandpa’s surname was Shamberg. So was Carl’s. But Davie’s was Schanberg. Eddie’s was Shanberg. And Murrey’s was Shamburgh

They didn’t come alone. The first member of the family to reach America, I’m told, was Grandma’s brother, Kalman Hoffman, who set up a small dry goods store at 120 Ridge Street on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Years later, after Kalman’s death, I was given his name. I never got the details, but I believe it was Kalman who sent for Grandma and Grandpa. Kalman, the entrepreneur, also eventually sent for his elderly parents, Isaac and Rebecca Hoffman, who were my great-great grandparents and had apparently worked in agriculture in Bessarabia. They died around 1911 (one of their deaths is listed as Oct. 11, 1911), and are buried in Washington Cemetery, Brooklyn. I have some vague notes that mention Cem 3, Row 3 left, 13 sec, Bnai Jac An Checkanoffzer and Albert Meyer Family Circle, Path 14 left (Cem 3, Row 3 left, 13 soc).

The 1940 Census shows Kalman Hoffman, age 66, born in 1874, and his wife Minnie, age 58. Kalman and his wife Minnie had three children: Moe (born 1899, died 1969); Rose (born May 21, 1897, died age 86 on July 21, 1983); and Lillian (born 1905, died in late 1970s). Rose’s birth certificate says the family resided at 120 Ridge St. in New York City when she was born, the same address as Kalman’s little store. Moe married but neither he nor Lillian or Rose had children of their own. Moe started working for Herring Brothers in New York City, later opened his own business in the NYC garment industry and was very successful. So much so that he provided financial support for his two sisters, and gave substantial donations to Jewish charities. I regret that I never met him.Rose Hoffman, my grandmother Lillian’s first cousin (we called her Cousin Rosie) was an amazing woman, a generous, creative, sensitive soul who wrote plays and poems and—believe it or not—had psychic powers. She really did! Since I was named after her late father, we became quite close and she played an important role in my life. More about her later.

My grandma's psychic cousin Rose Hoffman (1897-1983) as a young lady.

Feb. 5, 1927. Found in a handwritten notebook of Rose Hoffman, my maternal grandmother’s psychic cousin. She was 29 years old at the time

Outside snowflakes are softly falling, and everything is so white, and restful. How refreshing each flake is to me—and as my eyes pick out here and there patches of virgin white, my heart within me throbs, lest they be spoiled. And in comparison, my mind wanders back a bit—to a pretty scene in June, when in similar mood, I happened to wander away in the fields—and came to a spot where a little summer cottage stood alone, like a hermit amidst a field of green, and rambler roses of pale pink and deep red set off the dull grey of the little house. I remember I looked inside, and found the place deserted, and rested there a while—I was all alone there and the very same thoughts possessed my mind. Rambler roses, fresh untouched and pretty like the virgin snow, whose hand would in one second rob them of their beauty, and short life, Like the virgin snow, whose feet would soil it—How helpless the roses are, how helpless the snow flakes, and to me something like this dawned upon me. Humanity---!!! like the snow flakes and like the flower—Whose hand would rob and soil us—For each one of us are like patches of white flakes, or like the flowers. Millions of hands are there ready to snatch at us, or like heavy feet ready to trample upon us. Hands, feet , in the disguise of thoughts, ideas that enter our brains, brought on by surrounding conditions---But yet unlike the flowers, God had endowed us with understanding, if we would only stop for a moment by the wayside to see the light. And when surging within me, like the roar of the waves the billion impulses within me—tear at my mind, and heart, blinding me in their rage to give them birth—and I choke them back unwillingly, because I stand all alone, but some day those impulses will be given life and it is then I fear for these hands, and feet, who find pleasure in destroying to satisfy their lust. In contrast to this some unknown force is guiding me on to be patient and calm and to love all humanity. Good God, I see a chaos on earth—a downpour of rain, hail, lightning, thunder, fire, water, physical humanity trampled in bloodshed—the world one great ball of darkness, plague and horror, the scene is horrible, my blood seems to freeze—I pray for the light, and behold I see an ark—and all which seemed necessary to life before is wiped out, and spirit takes it proper place and love rules supreme. What beauty, we have it now on earth—but it seems humanity will not take heed. Nature takes its place, all those who did not hesitate before they touched the rose, or trampled on the virgin snow, take heed, because it seems they have learnt their lessons well. The blue skies, the milky ways, the beautiful sunshine, the flowers, the dew, the brooks, the vines, the ocean, all are calm and serene. It’s summer all the time, the birds are not afraid to sing. Music—fragrance, beauty, Good Will on earth. It’s so beautiful, and then the rainbow. Such colors never have I seen one like it before—the clouds have rolled by, and silver linings enhance the night. Wild beasts, no such things, all the evils that were here before exist no more—even the roses have no thorns because none do take unless it’s rightfully theirs. The tower of Babel it’s there again, but all speak one language because dear God had built a cathedral for all his children. Truth, understanding and Divine Love rules Supreme.

April 19, 1929. Kalman Hoffman died, at age 64. His daughter Rose said her father’s funeral cost from $5,000 to $6,000, a fortune in those days (probably paid for by his wealthy son Moe). He had been living at 1240 Bay Ridge Parkway in Brooklyn, and later moved his business to the corner of 20th St. and 4th Ave.

April 21, 1935. When I was born, my great-grandma urged my parents to name me in honor of her beloved brother, Kalman, and they did so.

The day I was born, an Easter Sunday, the front page of The New York Times (cost ten cents) featured several headlines, including: 7-Alarm Fire In Brooklyn Floods I.R.T. with Smoke, Fells Many in Manhattan; Earth Is Pictured As Blue To Marsand Schultz Jolted As Account Book Appears At Trial, a story about notorious gangster Dutch Schultz.

Rose Hoffman letter to Kal, dated around 1973. Did you know that, shortly after you were born, I wrote a poem about you? When Lillian, your grandmother called me, and said that Rozlon had given birth to a little boy, and that they were going to name the baby Kalman, after my dear Dad, I sat down and wrote this poem. It was 1935, thirty-eight years ago. I still have it. ROSE

Darling little one,

So sweet under the stars and the sun,

You are a lucky one,

To be born to such a dear mother.

Remember, there is no other,

And for you, out of the blue,

a heritage of intelligence,

good health and wealth.

In all humility

you will love humanity.

Forward you will march

Leaving behind all stiffness and starch.

You will travel in paths never tread,

And always will be well fed.

In years to come,

You will collect a great sum,

Relating to your children, grandchildren,

and great grand children

The wonders of the coming new age.

In history you will write a new page.

So dear little one,

Always be happy under the stars and the sun.

And even, when the rain, snow or fog does come,

You will still collect your sum.

You will learn and teach new ways,

And the Grace of God will always

send you a bright ray.

Namesake of my Dad

--From Rose Florence Hoffman.

April 30, 1935 (nine days after I was born). Typewritten letter on White House Stationery to Rose Hoffman, my maternal grandmother’s cousin, concerning Rose’s play Sylvia’s Present. My dear Miss Hoffman: I read your manuscript and think it is light and charming and would be suitable for schools. Unfortunately, I cannot give you this letter for publication or for use in any way as so many people send me their manuscripts it is not possible for me to express any opinion about them. Very sincerely yours, Eleanor Roosevelt

1935, the year I was born: The depression continued, with unemployment still running at 20.1% , and the war clouds were gathering as Germany began to rearm and passed the Nuremburg laws to strip Jews of their civil rights, and Mussolini’s Italy attacked Ethiopia. The Gallup Poll was introduced and a reformed drinker named Bill Wilson formed Alcoholics Anonymous on June 10th.

Events: Persia is renamed as Iran; Amelia Earhart flies solo across the Pacific; President Roosevelt signs the US Social Security Act Providing Unemployment compensation and pensions for the elderly; The China Clipper makes the first Pacific Airmail delivery; The Emergency Relief Appropriation Act on April 8 creates The Works Progress Administration (WPA) to create millions of jobs; 1,200,000 people face starvation in Illinois due to lack of funding; First Public Housing Project launched in New York;

Average Cost of new house $3,450; Average wages per year $1,600; Cost of a gallon of Gas 10 cents; Average Cost for house rent $22 per month; A loaf of Bread 8 cents; A pound of Hamburger Meat 11 cents; Average New Car Price $625; Canada Dry Ginger Ale 20 Cents;

Popular Culture: Babe Ruth hits the 714th and final home run of his career. Parker Brothers releases the board game Monopoly; Porgy and Bess opens in New York; Penguin produces the first paperback books; First Orange Bowl. This was also the year of the birth of Swing by Benny Goodman and the world was ready to boogie.

Technology: The Peoples car ( Volkswagen Beetle ) is launched in Germany; First Experimental Radar is developed in UK; GE Starts selling the first Fluorescent Tube for light; First Parking Meters in Oklahoma City designed by Carl C Magee; Toyota Cars are launched in Japan. For the first time, a completely synthetic fiber, was produced by a Dupont chemist. It was called nylon.

Born in 1935 among the millions of others were: Julie Andrews , Oct. 1; Luciano Pavarotti, Oct. 12: Woody Allen, Dec 1; Sonny Bono, Feb. 16; Dalai Lama, July 6: Elvis Presley, Jan. 8; Donald Sutherland, July 17; Dudley Moore, April 19;

A few folks born on my birthday, April 21: Anthony Quinn (1915); Warren Spahn (1921); Queen Elizabeth II (1926); Elaine May (1932); Charles Grodin and former NJ Governor Thomas Kean (1935); Patti Lupone (1949); Tony Danza (1951).

Lillian: Nanny

My grandmother, Lillian, was 42 in 1937 when my mother died. She worked as a bookkeeper, and to the best of my knowledge was the only person in my immediate family who earned a weekly paycheck at the time. Despite her modest economic circumstances, she dressed with simple elegance. Nanny was a shy woman, not given to open displays of affection, but her quiet devotion to her parents, and to me, was evident each day, in the way she worked hard to support us. In her moments of relaxation, Nanny loved to read. She belonged, I believe, to the Book-of-the-Month Club, and I recall that she particularly liked romantic novels. Daphne Du Maurier was a favorite. Nanny had married Abe Heller, my maternal grandfather, who was a film editor for Warner Brothers, in the early days of the industry. At the time Warner had offices in either Queens NY or Fort Lee NJ. They had two daughters: my mother Rozlon (born Feb. 8, 1915), and my aunt Lucille (born April 30, 1919). When the girls were young, Abe ran off to Hollywood and married another woman. He remained there, and never provided support for his young daughters. Abe Heller worked in Hollywood for decades as a film editor (I’m told he specialized in editing coming attractions). The movie database www.imdb.com only lists a single credit in his name, showing that he edited a 1928 film Sonia, starring and directed by Hector V. Sarno, with Evelyn Pierce and Rosa Rosanova. (Sarno, born in 1880 in Naples, Italy, died in California in 1953 and acted in 196 films, mostly in small uncredited roles).

Aunt Anna

My great-aunt Anna, was born in Bessarabia in 1887, and was brought to New York around 1891. I don’t know how or where, but at some point she met and married a successful businessman, Mr. Kronenberger, and they lived on prestigious Lake Shore Drive in Chicago, where he operated a clothing business. Anna regularly sent a $25 check to her mother (my greatgrandmother), which in those days was quite helpful in covering costs. She had two sons, Dick and Bruce. There was a great tragedy when Dick died, as a young man. Am not sure of the circumstances. Someone in the family said he committed suicide. I do recall that Anna later sent a package to us; it contained a few quality wool sweaters of Dick’s, which I (the poor little boy) wore for several years. Anna came east to visit just a couple of times, and we then lost track of her. But I did find a few letters she wrote to Nanny, her sister, who then was living in an apartment on South 13th St. in Newark NJ (see these letters later).

Aunt Molly et al.

Molly Hoffman, a sister of Grandma’s (we called her Aunt Molly), also came to America, as did a brother, Uncle Herman (many years ago, I heard that Uncle Herman had moved to California, where he operated a tie shop, but I have no further details). Grandma, Molly, and their respective families settled in New Jersey, while Kalman and his family remained in New York. Aunt Molly married Sam Farber, owner of a grocery store at 560 South 12th St in Newark NJ. Molly and Sam had four children. It is said that Sam Farber was the one who brought the family from New York to Newark. Dora, Molly’s daughter, married Morris Greenberg, owner of a small supermarket on the main street in Maplewood NJ. They had three children: Buddy, Selma and Arnold. Buddy (who had a reputation as a playboy) married Margie (an attractive woman who was once a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall, I think) and they had two children. Selma married Ed Platter, and they had two children (Billy & Ed). Arnold married, but I have no data about children (I think they adopted a child).

My mother, Rozlon Heller

I was so young when my mother died that I have no memory of her. All that I possess to remind me of her are a few photos, and three letters she wrote to her uncle, Edward Shanberg, who lived with his wife, Elizabeth, in Greensboro, North Carolina. Uncle Eddie and Aunt Elizabeth saved those letters, and mailed them to me many years later. They are among my greatest treasures.

1936: The first, undated, was written in the midst of the Depression, when times were very hard. In that letter, to Uncle Eddie and Aunt Elizabeth, my mother, who was separated from my father, and living with her grandparents at 355 Peshine Avenue in Newark, congratulates them on the birth of their first child, Barbara:

"Hello Pappy!!!!! How glorious - perfectly wonderful that Elizabeth has come thru fine and with a precious bit of heaven - We up north are very happy for you -- and wish you both a world chuck full of good things for your daughter. I wish I could hop-skip and jump down to Aunt Elizabeth and the baby. Give them a big kiss for all of us--and a wet one for Kalman.... Grandma is really alright now -- She wishes she were able to make a trip down South -- But it seems there is a nasty villain called money that always eludes us....Kalman walks all by himself at last -- He is so proud of himself -- He walks about saying alone - alone - alone , telling us he doesn’t need our help anymore. Very soon you will be writing us and boasting of your daughter’s accomplishments - Isn’t it a wonderful feeling to have a baby -Something all your own -- A beautiful, soft little body to love and cherish -- It is something to live for -- To cry for -- fight and laugh for...."

October 11, 1936, my mother wrote again to North Carolina: "To Mommie & Daddie and Barbara...Please - Please forgive me for being so late answering but I have been very busy - I am at last working as a sales girl in a very nice dress shop -- When I get home at night I am so tired I just can’t do anything but kiss Kalman goodnite -- and go to bed. How is my darling very new cousin? I almost wrote niece -- I feel like an aunt to her -- Tell us what does she look like -- Does she eat like a little piggy --So that she will get fat and adorable -- Aren’t they gorgeous precious things to have --they are expensive and they are troublesome, but one tiny smile and all is forgiven. When I get home at nite I feel so utterly alone and morbid -- so nasty after waiting on picky women all day -- but Kalman runs up to me, throws his chubby arms about me and says mommie - kiss. Well -- It’s my seventh heaven..."

May 19, 1937: The third letter is postmarked a month after my second birthday, when my mother was very pregnant with my sister (although she does not mention it in her letter). She writes again to North Carolina, probably for the last time: "My dear Aunt, Uncle and Barbara...Your lovely box of candy was received amid exclamations of ohs & ahs! Grandma thanks you from the very bottom of her heart. It was the most delightful surprise. Kalman refused all candy but that which came from Grandma’s box. He says it is Be-e-e-e-u-t-i-f-u-l. That is the way he talks. He draws his words out and uses much expression... One of these days I will get around to taking pictures of my son. When I do I will forward one. He is the roughest, toughest, kid on the street. Plays ball with all the big boys. And shouts. ‘Make a double.’ He plays marbles like a veteran, and sings all the latest songs. All that at the age of two. But I have a lot of trouble feeding him. He eats very little. Spinach, eggs, string beans and Kalman are at war. We keep telling him about Barbara, but the poor kid does not understand why she doesn’t come and play with him. The weather has been very nice here. All here are well. There is nothing new. So close with love to you all from all. Rozlon."

Twelve days later, my mother lay bleeding to death in the City Hospital. The lights were turned on in at least one movie theatre in downtown Newark, and pleas were made for blood donors, a family member told me years later. Whatever the response to those pleas, she died a few hours later. Each time I re-read those precious letters written by my mother, I feel deeply moved by her love for me, and infinite sadness over her loss.

Sister June

June, my beloved shvester (sister), was born May 30,1937 with the given name Dolores Wagenheim. It was later changed to June by the couple who apparently adopted her in June 1937. I first connected (on the phone) with my sister on Sept. 10, 1973, when we were both in our 30s. Later for details.

May 31, 1937: The death certificate shows that Rozlon Wagenheim, a housewife residing at 441 Jelliff Ave, Newark, age 22 years, 3 months, 23 days, died on May 31, 1937, of post-partum hemorrhage, after giving birth. We were so poor we could not afford to pay for the funeral or burial. But Morris Greenberg, husband of Dora, my grandma’s cousin, who owned a small business in New Jersey, generously covered the cost. The funeral was held at the Philip Apter Funeral Home, and burial was at the Jewish cemetery off South Orange Ave., Newark. Her parents are listed as Abe Heller, born in New York and Lillian Shamberg (maiden name). Although Rozlon is listed as married, the space for the name of her husband is left blank. Since returning to New Jersey in the early 1970s, I have frequently visited her grave, especially on Mother’s Day.

Note: I shared some of my memories with family, and in 2007, I received an Email from my Cousin Lynn, who told me One of the few things my Mother told me about your Mother was that after her passing, every day you would look for her to come down the street. What do you say to a 2 year old?

June 1,1937: The press carried no notice of my mother’s death the previous day. But the New York Times (which then sold for two cents) frontpage headline screamed: GERMAN WARSHIPS SHELL ALMERIA, KILLING 20. Inside the paper were reports that Dr. John Wyckoff, dean of the New York University and Bellevue Hospital Medical College, died at age 55. Also, an estimated crowd of 40,000 persons witnessed a Memorial Day parade in Newark NJ, honoring dead soldiers. Two boys, age 15 and 14, drowned when caught in a whirlpool while swimming near Tiffany Falls in the Second River inside the Essex County NJ Park Reservation. And Boris Schwartzburg, 45, was shot and fatally wounded in his drug store in Brooklyn.

About The Wagenheims

My paternal grandfather, Morris Wagenheim (1867-1950), a tailor, came to America from Riga, Latvia around 1892 and at some point settled in Newark NJ. He was married to Ada Barr. They had four children: Nathan (Nat, 1896-1985); Dora; Frieda, and my father, Harold (1903-81). Uncle Nat had two sons: William (Bill) and Allan. Bill and his wife Shirley had two daughters, Diane (deceased) and Susan, a psychiatrist, who is married and has two sons. Allan has a son, Steven, from his first marriage, and Steven, married to Donna, has a daughter, Chrissy. Years ago, my Dad’s brother, Uncle Nat Wagenheim, gave me the following information, from memory. He said his father told him that in Latvia, they lived at Kovna Guberna Savolsku Yesk Noverzegora #17, Habeschegassen, Riga. He said they had come to the US by way of England. He mentioned brothers Abraham, Sam, and Hyman, some of whom came to America, and others went to the United Kingdom (perhaps en route to the U.S.). Morris also had sisters, Celia and M, who also came to the U.S. One or more settled in London and later came to America, while others came directly, settling in Baltimore and Michigan. Uncle Nat told me about a wealthy Wagenheim family in Atlantic City (in the meatpacking business, I believe) but he had no contact with them.

When my wife Olga and I came to live in New Jersey in 1971, we connected with Uncle Nat’s son, Cousin Bill Wagenheim and his wife Shirley, who then lived in Union NJ, and we have been very close ever since. Bill, in many ways, is like an older brother to me. Bill, for many years, with a partner (Stanley, a Polish-American) operated a Parts Unlimited retail electronics store on Washington St., near the corner of Market St. in downtown Newark. In the mid 1980s, at age 55, Bill retired, and sold the building to an Israeli. Bill & Shirley moved to an adult community in northcentral NJ, where they remained for years. Their eldest daughter, Susan, a psychiatrist based in Albany, has 2 boys (Matthew and Gregory) from her first marriage. She is happily married now to Michael Rosenberg. A few years ago, Bill & Shirley moved up to Delmar, a suburb of Albany, to be closer to Susan and the grandsons, and they are quite happy up there.

My Father, Harold Wagenheim

A copy of a birth certificate made on Feb. 3, 1970 shows that a Harry Wagenheim was born on Nov. 27, 1903 in Newark NJ to Morris Wagenheim and Ida Barr Wagenheim. A U.S. Census document taken April 15, 1910, shows a Harry Wagenheim (my father), age 6, living with his parents at 212 Broome Street in Newark. When he first entered school, he began to state his name as Harold E. Wagenheim with the E standing for Emanuel. The record shows that after graduating from Newark’s South Side High School (where I also studied) he had pursued studies at Newark State Normal, Rutgers University, and NYU’s Extramural Division.

In 1923, a document shows that Harry Emanuel Wagenheim took courses at Rutgers University’s School of Education in New Brunswick. On Feb. 23, 1931, he was granted a B.S. in Education from New York University’s School of Education. On March 16, 1960, a letter from the Newark Board of Education was mailed to my father who then resided at 127 So. Serrano Ave., Los Angeles 4, California. The letter, said: To Whom It May Concern. Re: Experience Statement. Mr. Harold Wagenheim was employed as a teacher in the Newark School System. From Sept. 1, 1929 to June 30, 1932 he taught at Montgomery Street Pre-Vocational School, and from Sept. 1, 1932 to June 30, 1935 he taught at Hawthorne Avenue School. On Sept. 1, 1935 (when I was five months old) he was transferred and assigned to Monmouth Street School, at which time he was granted a leave of absence for personal illness until Oct. 7, 1942, when he resigned. Mr. Wagenheim taught in the seventh and eight grade at the above listed schools, and his services were satisfactory. Leon Mones, Assistant Superintendent.

He loved theater. When he was 31, he even played a small role in a Broadway show, The Day Will Come, a play by Leon Birinski, which had a short run (Sept. 7 to Sept. 23, 1944) at the National Theatre (now the Nederlander Theater), 208 W. 41st St., New York. The program lists Harold Wagenheim as one of 25 Peasants and Villagers. Other Broadway shows that season included Ten Little Indians by Agatha Christie, "Catherine Was Great," by Mae West, While The Sun Shines by Terence Rattigan, "Seven Lively Arts" with music and lyrics by Cole Porter, The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams, and The Man Who Had All The Luck by Arthur Miller.

After my father’s death, I found, among his papers, a small printed brochure which on the cover read: Studio Of the Theatre And Its Allied Arts. Harold Wagenheim, Director. 105 Chadwick Ave., Newark NJ. Bigelow 3-8063. Inside are descriptions of various courses, and a brief bio sketch: Harold Wagenheim is a teacher of vast experience which includes all the creative arts. He possesses the ability for recognizing the possibilities and limitations of his students. Under his guidance students are treated as individuals and trained to use their native gifts toward some worthwhile creative goal.

He had little or no commercial success as a writer, but he was quite prolific. After his death, among his things I found several receipts for scripts he had written and registered with the the Screen Writers’ Guild. These included: How Did It Start? (2/27/51, paid $1.50); The Hodgson Girl And Mr. Dnoyeb ( 12/14/51 and 1/21/52, paid $1.50 twice). Later he registered scripts with Writers Guild of America West, in Los Angeles, Calif. These included: 10-20-30, Or: Ye Old Tyme Theater (11/24/59, paid $4); Sailors Snug Harbor; TV Filmed Series (11/24/59, paid $4); The Moments of Greatness (3/21/61, paid $4); Babel Busters (6/7/61, paid $4); Two Change Word Game or Two Way Word Game (12/11/61, paid $4); The Wastrel And Mr. Dnoyeb(11/6/62, paid $3.50); The Question Cinquain (4/7/65, paid $4); Juan’s People or The Many Lives of Juan Rodriguez, first draft (12/4/67, paid $3.50); The Case Of the Changing Habit or Box of Sweet Memories (7/2/68, paid $5). Unfortunately these organizations are required to hold a script for only 10 years, after which they are authorized to destroy them. In 2007, I Emailed them, asking—if by some miracle—the scripts are still on file, but I am not optimistic. The only script that I found among his papers is The Wastrel And Mr. Dnoyeb a 79-page typed carbon copy.

Among my late father’s papers I found a Prudential Insurance Co. policy, dated May 25, 1948, stating that Harold E. Wagenheim, an employee of The May Company, a department store in Los Angeles, had a group life policy for $1,000, and that the beneficiary was Kalman H. Wagenheim, Son of the Insured.

My Mother, Rozlon Heller Wagenheim

Taped phone interview, 9/7/97 with Lucille Steltzer (My Aunt, Mom’s younger sister, born 1919, age 78 at time of interview. She was living with her youngest daughter Robin and son-in-law Stan Glogocheski in Woodbridge NJ (Robin & Stan have two children, Jamie and Jeff).

Lucille: You know what amazes me? Your mother used to write. Your father used to write. Your mother used to write uneven type of poetry, it didn’t rhyme, but it was like very deep.

KW: I didn’t know that. No one ever kept it, did they?

Lucille: We didn’t think of it at the time. Who knew she was going to die? KW: How’ve you been?

Lucille: I’m OK. I’m a diabetic. I take insulin. I give myself my injections. Sometimes Robin or Stan take me shopping. Jamie is a real character. Jeff is taking Spanish in high school. That’s the most spoken language in this country. I can read if the letters are three inches high. I can see TV. I’m not blind. There are so many sugar-free foods now, it’s easy to be careful. Ice cream. Cookies.

KW: I’ve been wanting to make a family record, maybe for the kids. You told me where my mother died, in which hospital.

Lucille: We were four years apart. She was very mature in comparison to me.

KW: When she died in 1937, she was 22, and you were 18. How did my parents meet? Do you know?

Lucille: Your father must have had a nervous breakdown before she met him. You know who he was going with? Frances (my sister June’s stepmother). And his mother went to Frances’ mother and said don’t go with my boy, he’s a sick boy, he had a nervous breakdown. She broke up with him, but she never stopped loving him. Then he met my sister. Too bad she didn’t come to Nanny. Frances was sitting next to me, that time they came to your house, and her eyes were eating you up. Because of your father. She says, oh how I loved him. She kept on telling me how his mother came to her. Then I realized it was her we heard about. I remember vaguely me taking walks with him. He was very strange. You wanna take a walk? He was very strange.

KW: In what way?

Lucille: Not crazy, but weird. I’m walking with him one day. I was a kid.

He stopped real fast, stamped his foot on the sidewalk. There was a dollar bill, or a five dollar bill, I don’t remember, on the sidewalk. He didn’t want anyone to see him get it. Don’t move, he said. He looked around. Finally he bent over and picked it up.

KW: (laughs) That was a lot of money in those days. Did they go out for a long time before they got married? I never saw a wedding picture of the two of them.

Lucille: I don’t remember. I know they got married. .

KW: Would it have been with a rabbi?

Lucille: Yeah. They had a Jewish ceremony.

KW: Cause I know his parents were religious. And Grandma was religious.

Lucille: When she died, of hemorraging, the doctor came in, and he said she gave up, she didn’t even try. Whether he could have saved her or not, I don’t know. They took her to the hospital. She was heartbroken because your father left her.

KW: I know they were separated when she gave birth.

Lucille: She gave birth to you and he left her. Then he came back. Then he left her again. He was strange.

KW: He left her when I was born? I didn’t know that. You mean he left before I was born, or after?

Lucille: She was in the hospital, and came home and he wasn’t there. And he stayed away for a while, and then came back. She was madly in love with him and took him back. Then she got pregnant with June, and you know what happened after that.

KW: Do you have any idea what the problem between the two of them was?

Lucille: He had had a nervous breakdown at one time.

KW: It wasn’t like he was involved with another woman.

Lucille: No, no. He was just mentally...

KW: Mentally unstable.

Lucille: Yeah. He was a teacher at Hawthorne Avenue school if I’m not mistaken. I think he taught 8th grade school.

KW: He never taught again after she died. In fact, I don’t think he ever had a decent job after that. When she died, he was living with his parents. After, did they try to see me?

Lucille: I don’t know if they didn’t care, or if they didn’t think they were welcome. Maybe because of what they felt he did to her. He actually broke her heart. Did you ever see a movie with an old time actor called Richard Dix? He looked a lot like your father. She was madly in love with him. I’ll never forget when they took her to the hospital. My Uncle Carlie. I was lying on the couch. Waiting for them to come back. And they said Rozlon just died. I had dozed for a while. Carlie was standing there, and his arms were crossed, and tears were dropping on his arms.

KW: June was born May 30. My mother died the next day.

Lucille: They couldn’t stop the hemorraging. Carlie and Nanny were in the hospital. Grandma was in the house, with me. She was waiting for them to come back. And I remember Nanny saying to her, Rozlon died. Carlie standing there, tears dropping on his arms.

KW: When you were a young girl, did your mom tell you how old you were when your father abandoned you?

Lucille: I was a year and a half. Never knew my father.

KW: So my mother was only five and a half when he walked out.

Lucille: I don’t remember my life with her as a kid. Isn’t that something? She was much more mature and had her own friends. She had a friend Lily, who lived around the corner from us on Belmont Avenue, and later moved to Florida.

KW: Did your father, my grandfather, fall in love with some other woman?

Lucille: She worked for him. I think she enticed him to leave. I never knew him until we went to California, and I was a married woman. Originally he was in Fort Lee, New Jersey, where the movie business started. I was thinking about Rosie, who predicted that years later my mother would meet my father again in my apartment in Newark, and they did!

KW: That was back around 1960.

Lucille: Yeah. We were living in the Seth Boyden Apartments at the time. Frances, his wife called, and said, Hello Lucille, Daddy and I are in New York and we’re going to come visit you. I said fine. Nanny worked. So I figured I’d call her and tell her, but then I said nah. Rosie predicted this three years before. That’s why I didn’t call her I guess. I figured I’ll wait til she gets home from work and call her. They came over . There was a knock on the door. My mother. She said I’m on vacation this week. It was pathetic. She sat there, all she did was shake. She couldn’t drink the coffee.

KW: Yeah, after so many years of not seeing each other.

Lucille: It was very upsetting. She said, I better go, and she walked out. I wonder how Rosie predicted that.

KW: I don’t know. She told me I was going to find my sister June.

Lucille: Rosie told me were were going to ride through red dirt. And that’s what we did when we went to California. We went there for about a year, but (my husband) Sam couldn’t find work. I guess Frances didn’t want him there. My father wouldn’t find him work, and we came back. Nanny supported us, she went to work, and Grandma raised us. I think I was married when she married Harry Krantz. I think she got the house on Belmont Avenue out of it. One went to the daughter and one went to Nanny. He had been married before. His wife died. He was a nice man.

KW: He was a funny man. Always good humored.

Lucille: His son, Shorty Krantz, was a wealthy man, who owned a bar downtown. Another son was a pharmacist. I know he had a daughter.

KW: I moved over to Belmont Avenue (with Grandma and Grandpa) when Harry Krantz died. She was left all alone, so she asked us to move over there.

Lucille: Your mother was so brilliant,. I know she worked in a toy factory. She wanted to make a few bucks. She went a couple of years to high school. She was such a brain. She kept skipping. She used to write uneven poetry, it didn’t rhyme, it was very deep. I do know that she was in a magazine. You know those love story magazines? There was a picture of her, with her elbow on a bar, and her foot on the railing in front of the bar.

KW: Really?

Lucille: I don’t remember if it was before she met your father, or when they separated.

KW: I do have some photos of her that look as though they were posed by a professional photographer. A fashion photographer. They were not amateur photos. Did you tell me that my mother had once won a dance contest?

Lucille: She did the tango, a Spanish dance. There used to be a place called the Avon Mansion. It was a place where they had weddings. She wore